“Childhood Still Life:” where I came from, where I am, and where I am being invited to go

Childhood Still Life

Gravel crunches under foot,
with cotton, corn, and tombstones
all tended in rows.

The sharp-sweet smell of pine resin
dripping down the trunks of trees
like sweat in the hot sun.

I press the thick golden sap,
leaving small fingerprints
on distant generations’ gems.

Windchimes sing across the yard
as a Summer storm rolls in,
a growing shadow on the horizon.

I sit alone on the patio
weaving dreams between my fingers
like scarlet thread.

At my feet the box turtle
resists our forced friendship, 
stubborn with its own plan 
to return to the wild.

The slap of the screen door,
the wash of rain in the leaves,
and the song of the birds
taking shelter in the camelias.

Later I lay across the patchwork quilt,
humming along with the fan’s drone,
chanting myself to sleep,

and at the edge of the forest,
I see a warm light glowing,
inviting me to take the next steps
on the path of my life.

--Stuart Higginbotham